


Little Fall of Rain

by taranoire



Series: FenHawke Drabbles [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Boys Kissing, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>number 1: generic, fluffy kissing & cuddles</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Fall of Rain

Thunder rumbles a low note beneath the melody of rain tapping thick glass. The Hightown estate shudders under the weight of the storm’s electric pulse, but to Hawke it’s just background noise. The fire is hot and fills the room with a dark, smoky scent.

He’s lying upside down on the bed, facing the hearth, Fenris folded snug against his chest, warm and half-asleep by the steadiness of his breathing and the unfocused nature of his gaze. Fenris blinks languidly, watching the flames as they slowly devour. 

He had been reading aloud in Tevene perhaps a half hour ago, but after a time his soft voice faded into quiet and the book fell from his limp hand to the floor. Neither has moved to collect it. 

Hawke presses a kiss into his fire-warm skin, just below his ear, which twitches faintly. Fenris’ vest is disheveled, in their entanglement, and Hawke gently, slowly runs his hand across his bare waist; feather-light on his abdomen. He nuzzles into his hair, the back of his head, not able to decide why his scent is so achingly familiar. It’s sweet, but subtle; like honey or chamomile, but more earthy than that. 

Maybe it’s an elf thing. 

Hawke knows Fenris is probably trying to sleep, but he seems somehow soothed by this—the touching. His eyes are closed and he’s relaxed against Hawke’s body, heavy and soft like he belongs there, like this is all he could ever dream of wanting. Encouraged, and more than a little prideful that Fenris wants his touch, Hawke kisses him again, warm against his neck, then brushes his lips down, breathes him in. 

He feels him shudder, watches him tilt his head to expose more of his neck, and it thrums through him. 

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks. 

"No." 

Hawke smiles into his skin. Good. His fingertips dip down, smooth against his heat, and he kisses his ear, biting gently when he hears a sharp, soft gasp of approval. Fenris trembles for a moment, soundless and trying not to squirm. Then he tentatively grabs Hawke’s wrist, and shifts so that he’s looking up at him with those sweet green eyes that turn all of Hawke’s insides to putty. 

Fenris is staring at his mouth and his lips are parted and Hawke is not really sure what comes over him. He kisses him like he’ll never get the opportunity again, hungry and deep, spurred on by his soft and muffled moan; Fenris moves with him and up against him and he can feel him shaking, can feel him struggling to find the rhythm, but the intimacy loses nothing for it. 

"I want you," Fenris murmurs insistently against his skin.

When they first did this, touched and held each other and tried to press out the cold, Hawke had been concerned something was wrong, that he had misinterpreted what it was Fenris wanted from him. There had been too much silence. Over time he’s determined that’s just how Fenris is. Quiet, steady, and meditative, completely in control of himself to a degree that others might see as apathy. 

Hawke has noticed much of the same thing when the elf is in combat. He does not cry out, seems impervious to pain or frustration altogether. He slips into a place in his mind no one can touch. He concedes his body, but nothing else. 

(And breathe. Breathe. Breathe.)

Somewhere, faint and soft beneath the dark thunder, Hawke can hear the hum of lyrium.


End file.
